


The Favor

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Fic, M/M, Multi, Pre-Threesome, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth started unwinding her scarf but seemed to lose track of it halfway through. "I did something stupid, something I can't tell Peter, and—" She winced a little. "Help?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Favor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> Contains a tiny spoiler for 2.03.

## 1.

It was a foul New York Saturday afternoon. Mozzie was in Queens chasing down information on the music box, June was visiting her son in Connecticut, and Neal was lying on his couch, re-reading Poe and trying to ignore the weight of his tracking anklet.

There was a knock on his door. Neal had few regular visitors these days, so he knew who it was. He shoved his book under the couch cushion and went to answer it. "Hi, Peter, I suppose it's—" He broke off. "Elizabeth?"

She was bundled up in a winter coat and scarf, and clutching her hat and gloves. "Neal, I—" She gave him a weak smile. "Can I come in?"

He held the door wider and waved her inside. "What's wrong?"

She started unwinding her scarf but seemed to lose track of it halfway through. "I did something stupid, something I can't tell Peter, and—" She winced a little. "Help?"

"Of course," said Neal promptly. The thought of something that Elizabeth couldn't tell Peter was alarming, but there was no way Neal could say no. "Have a seat. I'll make coffee and then you can tell me all about it."

She nodded, finished disentangling herself from her scarf and hat and piled her winter things on a chair. By the time he brought the coffee over, she seemed calmer.

Neal sat down across from her. "What happened?"

She curled her hands around her cup. "I've spent the last month planning a party for Greta Holtzmann—"

"The Congresswoman?" Neal interrupted.

Elizabeth nodded. "It was last night, in her home, which—do you know it?"

"I know of it," said Neal cautiously.

Her lips twitched, and she drank from her cup. "Right. Ostentatious doesn't begin to cover it. Anyway, Greta was rude to my staff, and I sort of lost my temper with her, and—" She reached into her purse and pulled out a thick flat plastic bag, and handed it to him.

He put his cup down, turned it over and opened it, and pulled out a small original Salvador Dali. "Did you—?"

She screwed her eyes shut. "I took it."

Neal stared at her. That was—unexpected. And _breathtaking_. He squashed that thought hastily and glanced down at the painting. It was grotesque and beautiful, and he completely understood the appeal. "So, you—" He waited until she opened her eyes again. "You need to get rid of it. Are you looking for a fence or—"

"No," said Elizabeth, looking horrified. "No, I need to give it back. I mean, I need to put it back without—" She winced again.

"Without anyone noticing it was gone?" Neal frowned. Fencing it would be easier.

"Exactly." Elizabeth looked relieved. "It was in her parlor, above the piano, in the ugliest frame you've ever seen."

"I doubt that," said Neal. "Okay, so, what did you do with the frame?"

"I, uh. I put it inside the piano. And now Greta's paid her account and I can't get back in there without looking suspicious, and if Peter finds out—" She looked like a guilty schoolgirl.

Neal felt the ground slipping out from under him. It was bad enough being attracted to Peter, and now here was Peter's wife. Peter would kill him just for looking at her in a romantic light, but God, she was adorable. And a thief. He had to get her out of here before he did something stupid. "Okay. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

"You'll put it back?" Her face was filled with hope. "Neal, I don't know how to thank you."

Neal's baser self offered up several inappropriate suggestions. He ignored them all. "You don't have to. Just don't tell Peter. Seriously. Don't."

"I promise." She stood up, and he set the Dali carefully aside and followed her lead. She put her coat and scarf back on, and he ushered her to the door, where she put her hand on his arm, reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

"I—" Neal gazed down at her helplessly, and some trace of his feelings must have shown, because she flushed a little and stepped back, biting her lips together. He tilted his head and opened the door for her, and when she left he shut it again, leaned against it, and felt like an idiot. Mozzie was never going to let him live this down. And speaking of Mozzie—

Neal got his cellphone from the nightstand and called him. "Hey Moz, I need your help. Yeah. I need to unsteal a painting."

 

## 2.

El sat at her dining table, accounts forgotten, and worried. It had been five days since her secret visit to Neal's place, and she didn't know if he'd put the painting back, or sold it, or stashed it somewhere. She hadn't heard anything from Greta, but that might just mean the Dali's absence hadn't been noticed yet. From what El had gathered, the front parlor didn't get a lot of use.

She stared blankly at her laptop screen and wondered if she should just call Neal and ask, but that felt impossible. She'd already asked him a huge favor, and from the way he'd reacted to her when she left, he had an inkling of her embarrassing crush on him, so—best to leave it. If only she could stop worrying.

Satchmo raised his head and woofed quietly, and the next minute, Peter came bundling in the front door. "Hi, hon. It's raining elephants and hippos out there," he called, and she heard his umbrella drop into the stand.

She drank her cold tea quickly—Peter was the kind of guy who might notice that she'd been mooning instead of working, might ask what was on her mind—and smiled as he came in. "Hi honey, how was your day?"

He pulled a face. "No movement on the Tucker case, and no one wants to spend any time in the surveillance van in this weather. How about you?"

"Oh, you know—accounts, more accounts, and then some invoices." She got up and went to kiss him. "Sometimes I wish you'd stayed an accountant—then you could have handled all this for me."

"I would now if I had the time." He pulled his tie loose. "You could always hire a real accountant to do that for you."

"I know. I don't mind really." She went into the kitchen, put the coffee maker on and asked casually, "So how's Neal coping with enforced confinement in the office?"

Peter laughed. "Driving me crazy, just like always. Oh, that reminds me. He asked me to give you a message."

"Oh?" El retrieved a couple of coffee mugs from the dishwasher, and then started unloading the other clean dishes, so she didn't have to look at him.

"He said to look behind the mask." Peter was watching her—she could tell by his tone, the way he over-enunciated the words. "Any idea what that means?"

"None at all," said El honestly. It didn't really matter. What was important was that Neal hadn't forgotten—she had no doubt now that he'd done what she asked. She came to stand in front of Peter and kissed him. "I'll let you know if I figure it out."

"You do that," said Peter. He studied her a moment longer. "Is there something going on I should know about, El?"

It went against her nature to keep secrets from him, but she couldn't tell him this. She'd promised. So she just smiled. "Everything's fine."

She nearly added _I love you,_ but she knew that would only rouse his suspicion, so she kept it to herself, true though it was.

Later that evening, on her way to the bathroom, she glanced into all the upstairs rooms, trying to figure out what Neal had meant. There was nothing downstairs that she could see; maybe it wasn't in the house at all. But there, on the guest room wall, the old framed print of Benois's _Masquerade under Louis XIV 1898_ caught her eye. She'd hung it on the wall of her dorm room all through college, and it was a little faded now, but she'd always loved it. Now she realized Neal hadn't said _mask_ to Peter—he'd said _masque_. How like him!

She shut the door, stood on the bed and took down the print. Taped to the back was a large white envelope, and inside the envelope were two things: a small square of paper that said "Mission accomplished" and the Dali.

El's head spun. Not only had Neal not returned the painting to Greta, he'd left it here. He'd broken in here to hide it, for that matter. Why? Was he going to use her misdeed against her? Because if so, she needed to tell Peter now and forestall any trouble. But she couldn't believe he'd do that. Not Neal. Not to her.

She turned the slip of paper over, searching for more information, some indication of what it all meant, but it was blank. Just those two words. Then she looked at the Dali again. It was ugly, really. Twisted and disturbing, with its broken skeletal figures, but somehow hauntingly beautiful too. And—wait. In the corner, etched into a brushstroke were two tiny but distinctive letters: N.C.

Oh.

Well. That was—that was all right, then. That was. Okay. El made herself breath again. She put the print back on the wall exactly where it belonged. She slid the note and the copy of the Dali into the envelope and hid it in her dresser, under her most boring underwear. And then she went to the bathroom like she'd intended.

She was pretty sure she was going to have to confess to Peter before he worked out what had happened, because Peter being Peter, he'd always get to the bottom of these things eventually. She was sure she could swear him to secrecy. But maybe not yet. It would be easier with a few weeks' distance.

 

## 3.

Peter kicked back on the couch. He had the game on, a case file open on his lap and a beer on the coffee table, but he was distracted from all three. Two weeks had passed, and neither Neal nor El had explained the "mask" message. Peter wasn't worried. Neal was capable of just about anything, but if he was in cahoots with El, the worst Peter could imagine them conspiring on was a surprise birthday party for him. It would be advance planning—his birthday was a couple of months away—but given the lengths those two would go to for a party, it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility. And the idea of them working together was—nice. It made him smile, just thinking of it.

"What's going on, honey?" asked El, breezing into the room in her old gray sweatpants. She'd been in the bathroom for nearly an hour, doing something involving bubble bath, slices of cucumber and face masks—that was what had reminded Peter of the "mask" message. Now she looked freshly scrubbed and gorgeous, and she was carrying an envelope.

"I was just thinking how lucky I am," he said, closing the file and putting it aside. He beckoned her over, and she sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck.

"We're both lucky," she said, nuzzling his cheek. "I love you."

Peter grinned. "Okay then, 'fess up. You and Neal are planning something, aren't you? What is it?"

She froze for just an instant, and he knew he'd hit jackpot, but then she pulled away and said, "I'm not planning anything with Neal. He did me a favor."

She was trying to sound casual, but Peter could hear an underlying tension in her voice. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

"Not all of it." El leaned back far enough to meet his gaze. "I promised. But it's nothing to worry about. He made me a copy of a Salvador Dali painting." She opened the envelope and pulled out a painting full of deformed people and twisted trees. Peter hadn't seen that particular one before, but it was obvious at a glance that it was a Dali.

He took it off her and studied it. "Nice work." Then he looked closer and laughed. Neal had signed it. So it wasn't a forgery—just a copy this time.

"Isn't it great?" El smiled at it with a warmth in her eyes that should have set off Peter's alarm bells. Should have, but didn't. "I thought I might hang it in the bedroom."

Peter looked at the painting again, trying to appreciate it. "It's not really my kind of thing." El gave him a puppy-dog look. And after all, not everyone had a Neal Caffrey on their wall. Well, unless they were a major museum or art gallery. Or private collector. Peter shut off that line of thought. "Okay, fine, just—not somewhere I have to look at it too often, okay? That thing could give me nightmares."

"I'll protect you from the bad dreams," said El and kissed him. "Oh, and I was thinking—"

Peter smiled at the fake spontaneity in her voice. "Mmm?"

"There's an exhibition opening at the Powell next week— _Playboy of the Western World_. Lots of traditional figures and landscapes. Trust me, you'll love it." She elbowed him. "I was thinking we could take Neal, seeing as the Powell's outside his radius. As a thank you for the painting."

"It's kind of disturbing how you know the limits of Neal's radius," said Peter, laughing at her, but when she smacked him on the arm, he held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll ask him." He sat back and pulled her down so she was lying on his chest, her head tucked under his chin. "Are we taking him out to dinner afterward too?"

"Maybe," she said. There was that tension again, in her voice, her body.

"Good," said Peter, and felt her relax, her face turning into his chest, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Peter stroked her hair. "You have a crush on him, don't you?"

El raised her head slowly and rolled her eyes. "Is it really that obvious?"

Peter touched her cheek, still flushed from the bath. "I know you, and I love you. And—" He threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her in so he could kiss her forehead, and then made himself say it. "—I kind of have a crush on him too."

Her eyes widened, and after a moment, her eyebrows went up and she grinned at him. "Oh really?"

"But you've got it much worse than me," said Peter, as straight-faced as he could. "What other possible reason could you have for wanting to hang that bizarre eyesore in our bedroom?" He jerked his head toward the painting.

El burst out laughing. "Just for that, I'm hanging it in plain sight, where we can both see it every damned day, _and_ you're cooking dinner tonight." She settled back down in his arms, and he held her and smiled. There was more mystery behind the painting, but it would come out in the end. Maybe he'd ask Neal and see what story _he_ spun. In the end, it didn't really matter. As long as Peter and El were together, as long as they could tell each other the important things, everything was just fine.


End file.
